Inefficacy
by ejunkie
Summary: Ludwig/Feliciano. A feeling of helplessness and a selfish, desperate need for comfort, within a deteriorating world promising no pity for the beaten bastard. A test to the ties of friendship. Short series exploring the relationship of Ludwig/Veneziano.
1. Simplemindedness

**inefficacy**

Authors Note:/ This was set around the 1944, after the Sicily invasion, before complete Italian surrender. One of the latter military lines of the Allied advancement into Italy. However, my details are vague, and should be taken that way. I do not advocate the regimes during this period in any way; this is a story about the _characterised nations_, and their friendship. u

Was that the disclaimer? xD

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_inefficācia_

His hair shone in a darkened halo around him, dark strands rayed out as if they were part monument to some old pagan religion; a testament to the sun's rays in all her glory. His own fingers, long, and callous, twirled the threads, massaging the silk like texture between them, gluttonous around the little threads of hope, and love, that were his and no one else's.

There was a racketing boom; loud, the pursuing trembles seconds behind sending the panes of the tiny room rattling, the glass shaking in cement foundations.

It was closer this time. The Allies were close. He watched the vibrations on the sill, noting their ferocity through calm, paced breaths, until they subsided; they couldn't be farther then the Gustav line.

In the ensuing quiet of the room, his eyes closed, his breath a slow, deep exhale, eradicating all other thoughts, worries, notions, distractions- to settle on the inescapable conclusion they harboured. _The god blessed end_.

Shnnnf. his partner beneath the sheets, in his little pocket of warmth, his expression one of calm: and, in his blissfully free state, separate from the wears and tears of the war, so simple, yet so completely incomprehensible, even as he slept through the worst of the attacks. His damage was great, Ludwig's eyes flicking back to scan the stains in the firmly wrapped cloth bandages, tattered, murky streaks of table cloth. The darkened halo had increased, spanning most of his chest now, as the wounds just stopped healing, but still he hadn't crumpled, even now. He was... Ludwig's foundation, the dream away from the pain and weariness of this war, in a light and airy package, so stark a contrast to everything else that he seemed whimsical, and foolish. Maybe he was. But, somehow, he had moved to himself to mean more. Somewhere, in the past, something had changed, and now…

There was another quieter crash, causing Ludwig to blink, flinging him back to the present. His brow creased, eyes flicking once more to the flickering horizon of fire, a twisted, vivid scar amidst the pale blue tapestry of pre-dawn twilight.

The increased pounding in his chest berated him, as his gaze was locked on the windows; fighting the icy pull on his heart as he could feel the shudder int he man beside him, as another scar was carved into the growing mural of his chest, and Ludwig could picture the fresh wound, a pulsing, vivid ruby stream.

"I should have left..."

But he couldn't.

His fingers wound around the strands of the hair, and the ties tugged around the pulsing object in his chest that shouldn't exist; yet he could never find the strength to pull away, in his... weakness.

Serrating jagged pain staggered his gaze, as his stare burned the black shadows of the strands, yet the depths were blank, empty, before he sat back, grip loosening so as not to harm the other man, straining the crusted strands of hair back across his head as the air left him, focusing back on the ceiling, waiting for the sound of the scant response, of what was _left_.

Half a second late, the wail of the air raid siren squealed to life once more, screaming the warning out into the night. There was barely any point to them anymore, he noted; most of the city inhabitants must barely notice them anymore with the frequency, in what must have been the one good advantage of later wartime. Although, in his own personal experience, he had never experience such; but with Arthur's repeated assertions, irritation making his voice rougher then normal, at the end of 1918, he had slept soundly, ignorant to any evidence to the contrary.

The ground shook again, and after a moment, he turned to the window, eyes steady. The bed shook, sending tremors across the linens again and the unmoving form beside him, before he caught the burning orange of the sky and the first flares of fire, and he was entranced by them, almost unable to turn away...

Before his eyes had moved off of the lurid horizon or his mind had even registered what he was doing, his grip had moved down to rim of the blanket, fingers curling instinctively, as if they had been trained to do this. Following his body's movements through, unthinking of the reasons, he pulled the shroud over them, rapidly cooling sheets billowing upwards to flare orange briefly, before they were lowered into place, and he blinked into the white darkness. Eyes trained strictly up, his hand feathered down the edges, securing the defense, his skin warming where he accidentally brushed the Italians bare skin in places around him. Turning his back on the other –only briefly—he ducked to press down the edges on his side, scanning the clean cut lines until satisfied, before a light touch on his arm, and he turned to meet the gaze of the Italian, sleepy brown curving into a smile as Ludwig gazed back, hand rubbing his arm lightly, comfortingly.

The racing beat of his heart slowed, his breaths evening, and for the first time in what seemed like weeks, he was able to take in a breath and exhale completely.

A small smile slid onto his face at his own simple-mindedness, but with his dragging eyelids, the exhaustion hit him like a brick, and he could barely regain focus to care. His mind had reverted to childish dreams, and to be honest, he had no qualms with that.

"Go back to sleep, potato…"

His eyes flickered open from where they had nearly completely shut, and with a slow, questioning brow, his eyes found the others watching him, exhaustion-dulled, but still smiling, the green radiating a sense of warmth and comfort that ludwig could never quite find a place for in a man such as himself. With a small wriggle, the eyes squeezing shut once more, the Italian turned to lean fully against his bare chest and despite himself, he laid back down, arm extending to accommodate for the warm, squirming body of the Italian. Curling into him slightly, head resting in a light weight on his chest, Ludwig could feel the Italian's sigh across his skin before he spoke, quiet whispers breaking the silence between the bombs.

"Did you build a fort, Ludwig? Whatever for? It's not like if the bombs fell on us, this little sheet… could protect us... hee." The smaller man completed his yawn, stretching like a cat until the covers were pulled taught and collapsing in on them, the dark head nuzzling forward, leaning easily on the sheets as they billowed down around them. "How funny…. we must remember to tell fratello in the morning."

Ludwig looked at him, and in a breath responded in a sigh, eyes closing, the wrinkles of emotion, tiredness, pain, smoothing out into peace.


	2. where a plateau is reached

_**AN/ **__Another related Ludwig/Veneziano drabble to add to this small series._

**Disclaimer**: whilst I play with the history of certain named countries, the characterisation and reactions of these characters are _taken out of context_. My aim is to play with the impact changes in relationships or situation on man. Further, the characters themselves belong to Hetalia.

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**Plateau**

_As Veneziano looked up Ludwig raised his gun, slanting the muffle so that it was pointed straight at him._

They'd reached a plateau in the steps of an earthy staircase hewn through the plains of Tuscany when he froze. The steel of the muzzle glinting as Ludwig had pulled it out of his jacket, he'd raised it, reflecting the warm light of the late summer into the eyes of Veneziano before it was raised level to him. Their pants of the past couple hours excursion filled the hot air of the clearing, weighed down by the overbearing humidity. There were signs of strain in the other man as his grip trembled lightly around the weapon. But that didn't mean Veneziano understood the reason behind the gun. Ludwig had agreed to come, hadn't he? There was no reason for this-

"...hasshf. Veneziano." He looked up at the sound of his name, before he realised the other man had been speaking. He managed to catch his companions gaze, opening his mouth to ask the question- before the intensity of the eyes shocked him into silence. After a second, he moved his eyes back to the black pit of the chamber, light hazel wavering slightly as it followed the light in as far as it would go.

"...What is this, Ludwig?" The other didn't respond immediately, his tired eyes scanning the surrounding clearing before finally meeting the gaze of the Italian with his own.

"Quiet."

Veneziano didn't move his eyes from the pistol chamber, breath speeding up into a light pant. The other man's focus never wavered as he turned his head slowly, scanning the clearing in the half light. After a minute, he opened his mouth, gaze refocusing on the Italian- before his eyes narrowed, hand holding the gun swinging up, as his finger squeezed down on the trigger-

"Get down, Veneziano!"

_Bang._

The whistle of the bullet went over his head, meeting with an odd curse from behind him, and with a sharp intake of breath, he turned, eyes widening as he met a pale olive gaze. There was a muffled 'fuck', before the man before him tried to get to his feet, teeth gritting as he grasped a spreading patch of red on his shoulder, before the German was on top of him, wrestling the rifle from his grasp.

"Idiot, Arthur!" He pulled back quickly to avoid the responding fist, catching it and pulling it back behind the mans back as he ignored the repeated 'fuck' and managed to catch him in a headlock, gun pressed against his temple. "I'd stop if you want to keep your head. Veneziano; are you hurt?"

The Italian was frozen, staring at the ground, before suddenly he was on his feet and leaping at the German, arms wrapping around his waist in a tight grip. Ludwig fell back with the momentum, landing on the British man, and hitting him around the head with his muffled 'fuck!', before he grasped at the Italian, leveraging him off until he could see his face. "Veneziano? What is it? Are you hurt?"

There was a moment of silence, before Veneziano seemed to grin, blinking repeatedly before he turned his face away. "Not at all, Ludwig. Just the opposite, actually. I'm just happy we're allies~ vee!" He ignored the quiet 'what?' from his companion as he buried his face deeper into his chest, fingers sinking into the tightly woven cloth. After a second, with a muffled statement he couldn't hear, the German returned the gesture, the hot air of the man's breath brushing against his ear.

"Of course we're allies, Veneziano." He closed his eyes, resting his head against his friends.


End file.
